


Entangled

by plotweaver



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plotweaver/pseuds/plotweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the company pauses in Rivendell, Bilbo has his hair braided in the elven style. Thorin is very displeased, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entangled

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say that this took a long time to leak out of my brain? So I hope it's somewhat good. Maybe. There's a lot of ellipses in there, but I pretty much just said "screw it" and kept them all in. Hope you like it!

“What is that?”

His company paused in their revels, and it took Thorin a second to realize that he had spoken aloud.

Bilbo glanced around at all the faces turned toward him and said, “Sorry, what was that?”

Partly motivated by the desire to not lose face if he backed down, and definitely motivated by the infuriating need to know why his burglar’s hair was twisted in that fashion, Thorin pressed on.

“What is that in your hair?”

Bilbo’s hand flew to his head, fingers searching for the object of such offense. He relaxed visibly when he touched the tight row of hair above his left temple.

“You mean my braid?”

The whole company drew breath.

“Lindir gave it to me,” he continued slowly. The dwarves looked at him incredulously, so he began to elaborate. “The elf that greeted us when we first arrived. He offered, and… I thought it looked quite nice.”

Thorin gripped the edge of the table. Had it been made with less care, he was certain he would have cracked it in two.

“Do you forget the severity of our quest, Master Burglar?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened.

“Not at all-“

“Do you think this is some sort of frolic through the countryside where you can accept braids from any creature in every town we stop in?”

“Wait, what do you-“

“Are you now loyal to the elves? Are your affections so easily bought that a lavish dinner and some music could persuade you into such a bond with the first shirumund you saw?”

“Excuse me-“

But Thorin would not listen. How could he? There was a braid in Bilbo’s hair. It was delicate and elvish and not made by me, Thorin thought. His vision was spotting at the edges, and he realized that he had not taken a breath in too long a time.

He sucked air in through his nose, but it was wrong. Too sweet. The elves polluted even the air. It was too much. The elves had taken away his trust, his only chance against Smaug, and now they had taken away the air, taken away Bilbo.

Thorin closed his eyes and turned away, unable to stay in the argument. He found the nearest staircase and swiftly descended it. He didn’t care much where it took him, as long as it was away from the sight of that damned braid.

 

#

 

Balin didn’t have to go far to find Thorin. He found his king on a bench in the nearest garden with his head in his hands. 

Balin had observed Thorin closely in the past few weeks. He had seen his steadfast and courageous king become no better than a surly child, deliberately ignoring anything or anyone who made him uncomfortable. It was endearing, to be sure, but inaction didn’t become Thorin for very long. 

“A nice garden, don’t you think?” Balin gestured to their surroundings. “But I wonder that our burglar could do better.” 

Thorin looked up.

“I’m sure you had your mind on other things that night in Bag End,” Balin continued, “but Bilbo certainly had a wonderful garden.”

"Why are you speaking of this?" 

Balin's patience for circumvention evaporated. 

"You are too hard on the burglar."

"What?"

Balin tilted his head in a fashion that he made good use of when Thorin was only a dwarfling, impetuous and ornery. 

"You are too hard on the burglar," Balin repeated. "He is a hobbit, not a dwarf. He has no experience with axes or traveling." Balin smiled before continuing. "Or braids."

Thorin narrowed his eyes. 

"Braids are a sacred oath, to comrades in battle or to betrothed." Thorin's voice dipped lower on the last word. "It is a known custom. Surely, somewhere in all his books Master Baggins has learned this." 

"And if he had?" Balin asked. "Even if the elves' custom was the same as our own and Bilbo knew this? You think our burglar would entangle himself in merely a day? Surely you realize how ridiculous this sounds. Bilbo may have pride, but it is in working the land and loyalty. That is why I brought up his garden before. Did you see any unnecessary flamboyance there? He is a shy creature, not one for braids and-"

"Please." Thorin held up a hand. "He knows," the king said in a low voice.

Balin leaned forward. Thorin glanced up at him.

"He knows of my hatred of the elves. He wishes to make it a joke."

"Ah," Balin said. "Because Master Baggins seems to enjoy nothing more than jokes at the expense of those he's sworn his allegiance to." Balin turned and walked to the edge of the garden. Thorin was still very much the stubborn dwarfling he had known years ago, and he could not bear to argue the ridiculousness of his wrath any longer. He paused at the very edge of the greenery. "As your advisor, may I suggest one thing?"

Thorin dipped his head in acquiescence.

"You are to be King Under the Mountain in a short time. You would benefit from diplomacy. Talk to him."

With that, Balin left Thorin in the garden, head in his hands once more.

 

#

 

“May I come in?” Thorin asked. Bilbo waved his hand in silent permission. Thorin stepped forward into the room, but took great care to make sure that the door remained open. 

“I have been speaking with Balin, and I realize I should not have been so…” Thorin paused. His eyes fixed on a point on the floor, and he seemed to draw determination from it. His shoulders rolled back as he opened his mouth to continue his speech. “I offer my congratulations.”

Thorin bowed his head slightly and with such finality that Bilbo felt he must respond.

“Erm… what?” was all he could manage. 

“I give you my congratulations,” Thorin said, now visibly uncomfortable as he shifted ever so closely to the doorway. “May your union,” he cleared his throat, “be a blessed one. I hope the elf is worthy of you.”

Bilbo stood frozen in confusion. Thorin was speaking the common tongue, but he made no sense. Bilbo chuckled a bit, hoping Thorin would do the same, hoping that this was some ill-conceived joke. When Thorin didn’t react, however, Bilbo pressed his lips together and tilted his head.

“I’m sorry, what?” he repeated.

Thorin looked as if he wanted to throttle him. “The elf who gave you that union braid. I hope they are worthy of your hand in marriage and that you have many long years together,” he mumbled.

For the second time that night, Bilbo’s hand flew to his head to reaffirm the presence of the elven braid in his hair. The ridges of hair were smooth to the touch, and as he ran his fingers along the plait, Thorin’s words clicked in his brain.

His hand flew away from his braid as if it had been burned.

“You think that I…” Bilbo’s mind searched for the right word, “pledged myself to an elf?”

Thorin’s eyes met his for the first time since he walked into his chambers.

“The braid-” 

“Was a gift from a friend! I merely remarked on the beauty of the braids and how my own hair had gotten to be quite long on our journey, and he offered! It doesn’t mean anything.” 

Bilbo stopped himself. Did it mean anything? Surely the rest of the company had found some meaning in it, and they were much more well-traveled than he. He had read many books about elven-kind, but there was nothing in them about braids.

But surely Lindir would have said something if this was truly such an important custom? 

He had been so gentle, almost loving, as he weaved Bilbo’s hair together…

Suddenly the braid felt too tight against his head, almost painful.

“It doesn’t mean anything, right? It shouldn’t. I never…”

Thorin’s brow was furrowed, either in anger or confusion; it was so hard for Bilbo to tell. But his gaze was strong and measuring as he spoke.

“You did not promise yourself to an elf?”

“No,” Bilbo said. “I do not wish to marry an elf. I only wanted my hair out of my face! And now it hurts.” His fingers tugged at the braid.

Thorin then crossed the space between them in three easy strides. He seemed to hesitate a bit. He raised his hands, but let them hover in front of Bilbo for a moment, head tilted and eyebrows raised in question.

Bilbo turned his head a bit, allowing Thorin access to the braid. The dwarf’s rough fingers began working gently through the plaits, unraveling the subject of the night’s ire.

“Dwarves do not take braids lightly,” Thorin said. Bilbo would have retorted that the statement was obvious and unneeded had Thorin’s voice not been so low and close to his ear. “They are an intimate oath. If a dwarf is unmarried, he braids his own hair before battle as a promise to his comrades to have courage and fight with strength and vigor. But if a dwarf is attached, his intended braids his hair, to signify the dwarf’s promise to return safely, so the braid may be undone.”

“And when there is no battle?” Bilbo asked, not wanting Thorin’s warm breath to leave his ear.

“It is the same,” Thorin said. “The unmarried dwarf braids his hair as a promise to his fellow craftsman that his work will be of the highest quality and that he will work for the better of the kingdom. The betrothed dwarf has their hair braided and unbraided for them. Unbraiding each other’s hair at the end of the day is- ” Thorin’s hands stilled, as if realizing what he was saying. Yet Bilbo did not want him to stop, no matter how red he could feel his own face becoming. Thorin handled him with such care that it sent sparks of joy throughout his entire being until he felt like he would explode in the manner of one of Gandalf’s more exuberant fireworks.

“So when you saw me with what was obviously an elven braid…”

“I knew you had not put it in your hair yourself.”

Bilbo felt the last of the tiny plaits loosen. He may have imagined it, but Thorin seemed more relaxed now that the task was over. Rough hands lingered in Bilbo’s hair for a brief moment, before suddenly pulling away.

“There,” Thorin said.

“Ah, thank you,” Bilbo said. “I better go make sure that I haven’t, er, entangled myself into anything unwanted.”

Thorin merely dipped his head in response and made to leave Bilbo’s room. 

“Thorin?”

The dwarf stopped in the doorway. The soft moonlight outlined him with crisp precision, lighting up the edges of his hair and dancing in the braids against his face.  
“I am committed to this, you know,” Bilbo said. Thorin stiffened. His hands were clenched at his sides. He looked almost pained. “To this journey. To getting you home. Well, all of you home,” Bilbo elaborated, and the spell was broken. Thorin’s shoulders relaxed and he dipped his head in thanks. 

“Your… commitment is much appreciated, Master Burglar.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if that scene with Balin was rushed. It just would not get onto the page at all. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Comments are always appreciated.
> 
> Also, "shirumund" means "beardless" in khuzdul.


End file.
